The Alienist and Other Stories of Nineteenth-Century Brazil (20 page)

“Let us see,” he said to himself, “if I can discover the ultimate truth.”

Such were his thoughts as he paced back and forth in his vast library, the largest in all His Majesty’s overseas dominions. A damask robe tied at the waist with a silken cord embroidered with gold (the gift of a European university) enveloped his body. A powdered wig covered his head, grown bald from years of scientific cogitation. His feet, neither too delicate nor too large, precisely proportioned to the rest of his body, were encased by a pair of buckled shoes—their buckles neither of gold nor of silver, but rather, of simple, modest brass. Observe the contrast. His only luxuries were those of academic origin. All else was simple and unassuming, exactly as befits a truly wise man.

Back and forth he went, the great alienist, from one end to the other of his vast library, lost in meditation, oblivious to everything except the daunting intellectual problem of cerebral pathology. Suddenly, he stopped. Standing at a window, with his left elbow in his open right hand and his chin on his closed left hand, he asked himself:

“Were they really insane? And did I really cure them? Or …”

And digging deeper, he concluded that he really could not claim to have added anything to his patients’ already existing mental faculties. The apparent cures had simply revealed an underlying mental imbalance that was present all along—latent, perhaps, but present.

This conclusion produced in the spirit of the illustrious alienist two contrary reactions: gratification and discouragement. He felt gratified that, after such arduous labors and prolix investigations, he could at long last affirm the following truth: Nobody was crazy in Itaguaí, nobody at all. But no sooner had this idea refreshed his soul, than another sprang forth to discourage him. The second idea was doubt. Was it possible that Itaguaí possessed not a single perfectly balanced mind? Must not such a conclusion be, ipso facto, erroneous? And did it not, therefore, invalidate all his theories and destroy the majestic scientific edifice that he had so patiently erected?

According to the old chroniclers of Itaguaí, the affliction experienced by the egregious Simão Bacamarte at that moment figures among the most awesome spiritual tempests in the annals of mankind. Tempests terrify only the weak, however. The strong confront the thunder and do not tremble, but only grow stronger. After twenty minutes, a gentle light illuminated the face of the alienist.

“Yes, it must be that,” he thought.

And “that” was this. Simão Bacamarte had found all the characteristics of a perfect mental and moral equilibrium within
himself
. Patience, sagacity, tolerance, veracity, perseverance, loyalty—all the qualities, in other words, that defined madness. He had reservations about this conclusion, too, of course, and almost discarded it as illusory. Prudent man that he was, however, he assembled a jury of his friends and asked for a frank opinion. Their verdict was affirmative.

“No defects?”

“None,” they replied with one voice.

“No vices?”

“Nothing.”

“Utterly perfect?”

“Utterly.”

“No,” cried the alienist, “impossible! I do not feel that sort of magnificent superiority. Your affection for me has skewed your judgment. I cannot find in myself anything to justify your excessively kind assessment.”

The jury insisted, the alienist resisted, and Father Lopes finally clinched the matter:

“You cannot recognize in yourself the superior qualities that we all admire because … you are too
modest.
”

The observation was decisive. Simão Bacamarte bowed his head, both sad and happy, but a bit happier than sad. Immediately, he interned himself in the Casa Verde. His wife and his friends begged him not to do it. There was absolutely nothing wrong with him, they said. But pleading and tears were to no avail.

“This is a scientific question,” he affirmed. “A new approach to alienism in which I embody both theory and practice.”

“Simão! Simão, my love!” said his wife, her face bathed in tears.

But the illustrious physician, his eyes bright with scientific conviction, gently pushed her away and closed the door of the Casa Verde. Inside, he dedicated himself to his books and to his own treatment. The chronicles say that he died seventeen months later, having achieved nothing. Some chroniclers conjecture that the alienist was the only true madman in the history of Itaguaí. But that idea stems exclusively from a rumor that circulated after the great man’s death, a rumor that seems doubly questionable because it is attributed to Father Lopes, who always spoke so well of him. Whatever the truth of the matter, Itaguaí buried the great Simão Bacamarte with rare pomp and solemnity.

ENDNOTES

To Be Twenty Years Old!

1
. Machado’s characters often brandish the names of books and authors merely to show off. The content of the reference is generally not very important. Sometimes it is unclear whether the speaker has actually read the book that he (invariably a male, because girls got so little education) cites so ostentatiously. Therefore, footnotes will be added to the names of books and authors only when explanation is needed to communicate important content that the modern reader is unlikely to gather from the context. What the modern reader should get from most of these references is simply the prestige of European authors in nineteenth-century Brazil.

The Education of a Poser

1.
Machiavelli’s sixteenth-century classic contained behind-the-scenes advice on politics as actually practiced, in contrast to idealized appearances.

The Looking Glass

1.
Meaning: “Sister Anne, sister Anne, do you see no help on the way?”

2.
Luís Vaz de Camões, a sixteenth-century poet, is often considered Portugal’s greatest writer. Reciting half of his epic poem,
Os Lusiadas
, chronicling the Portuguese voyages of discovery and seaborne expansion, would be something like reciting half of Shakespeare’s plays.

Chapter on Hats

1.
Mariana’s reading is not only redundant but also unchallenging intellectually. Interestingly, the list includes a novel by one of Brazil’s first novelists, Joaquim Manuel de Macedo, but this is not a compliment to Mariana. In the nineteenth century, romantic novels like Macedo’s
Moreninha
were considered frivolous reading.

2.
An extremely popular opera indicative of not-very-sophisticated taste. The Cassino mentioned a few lines ahead was Rio’s most prestigious social club, not a gambling casino in the modern sense.

3.
Machado contrasts Mariana’s romantic favorites with Voltaire, his own favorite, whose sharp irony the young poser-to-be’s father warned against.

A Singular Occurrence

1.
The Lady of the Camellias
was a romantic novel by Alexandre Dumas, later adapted as a drama, about a French courtesan who falls in love with one of her clients and then disappears to spare him embarrassment.